Mr. Goddard met Miss Blow at breakfast next morning, and nerved himself
to the task of telling her that the search for Dr. O’Grady’s body must
be put off for twenty-four hours on account of the visit of the Members
of Parliament to the district. He did not know exactly how she would
take the news. He half hoped she might get angry and say something
which would give him an excuse for washing his hands of her affairs.
He feared that she might cry again as she had cried in his dining-room
the day before. He did not want to comfort her under Jimmy O’Loughlin’s
roof. Either Bridgy or Mrs. O’Loughlin might enter the room at any
moment. Even Jimmy himself, under some pretext, might interrupt the
affecting scene. Mr. Goddard was conscious that an account of his
dealing with a tearful Miss Blow given by Jimmy O’Loughlin would add
to the gaiety of the neighbourhood. His hope, as it turned out, was
quite vain and his fear unfounded. Miss Blow took the news in a most
unexpected way.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said.
Mr. Goddard was surprised. Miss Blow explained herself, and he came to
see that she had not given up her plan of a search party. It appeared
that she had a very high regard for Members of Parliament. Next to the
Habeas Corpus Act, which did not apply in Dr. O’Grady’s case because no
one knew who had the body, and trial by jury, a notoriously uncertain
thing in Ireland, she looked to Parliament as the great safeguard of
individual rights and liberties.
It became obvious to Mr. Goddard that Miss Blow expected the touring
Members to take up her case at once and vigorously, perhaps to make
a special law about it on the spot. He tried to explain that these
particular Members were travelling unofficially. Miss Blow did not
seem to think that fact made any difference. A Member of Parliament,
according to her view, is a Member of Parliament, whether he is
actually delivering a vote at Westminster or not. Mr. Goddard then gave
it as his opinion that there were too few Members of Parliament in the
party to do anything effective.
“It isn’t,” he said, “as if we had enough of them to constitute a
majority of the House.”
Miss Blow, by way of reply, stated her intention of meeting the party
at the railway station. She said she was sure that as soon as they
heard her story they would bestir themselves just as Lord Manton
and Mr. Goddard had, but rather more vigorously. She even suggested
that a telegram might be sent to the Prime Minister. Mr. Goddard
discouraged her. He felt that he was being rapidly edged into a very
awkward position. It was utterly impossible to calculate the effect
that a story like Miss Blow’s might produce on an enthusiastic Member
of Parliament. Almost anything might happen. Publicity, newspaper
paragraphs, and questions in the House of Commons would be certainties.
And he had been warned to show the approaching party every civility. It
would certainly not be civil to plunge them into a vortex of mysterious
crime. The Inspector-General would naturally be vexed if such a
thing happened, and Mr. Goddard’s prospects of promotion, never very
brilliant, would be injured.
“I don’t think it would do,” he said, “for you to meet them at the
railway station.”
“Why not?”
The Miss Blow at the other side of the breakfast table with a teapot in
front of her and a decisive way of handling it seemed quite different
from the Miss Blow who had wept so pleasingly in his dining-room the
day before.
“I rather think,” he said feebly, “that they have ladies with them.”
“All the better,” said Miss Blow.
“And their tour is quite unofficial. We’re not supposed to know that
they are Members of Parliament.”
“But we do know,” said Miss Blow.
The argument ended by Mr. Goddard promising to lay the case before the
Members. It was only by making the promise that he was able to induce
Miss Blow to refrain from going to the railway station. Having made
it, he slipped out of the room. It was after ten o’clock, and he still
had to make arrangements for the comfort of the party. He found Jimmy
O’Loughlin in the yard behind the hotel.
“There’s a party coming in by the train to-day,” he said, “and I
want a brake and four horses to meet them. They’ll be driving to
Pool-a-donagh.”
“Is it the Lord Lieutenant?” said Jimmy O’Loughlin.
“No, it’s not. It’s a private party.”
“I asked the question,” said Jimmy, “because, if it was the Lord
Lieutenant itself, he couldn’t get the brake.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right. It’s not the Lord Lieutenant.”
“And if the Lord Lieutenant wouldn’t get it,” said Jimmy, “you may take
your oath that another won’t.”
“And why not?”
“Because the two front wheels is off the only brake there is in the
town, and Patsy Devlin has them up at the forge fixing them, and he’s
gone from us. That’s why.”
“And there isn’t another brake?”
“There is not.”
“There are five in the party,” said Mr. Goddard. “We’ll have to get two
cars.”
“It’s a good eight miles to Rosivera,” said Jimmy, “and better than ten
on from that to Pool-a-donagh. I wouldn’t say that there was a horse in
the town fit to do the journey with four on the car, and there’ll have
to be four on one of the cars, if there’s five in the party, that’ll be
counting the drivers. My own mare was over at Ballymoy yesterday with
Constable Moriarty and the doctor’s young lady. It’s a day’s rest she
ought to have by rights, and not to be going off on the road again.”
“It can’t be helped,” said Mr. Goddard. “I must have the horses.”
“There isn’t another gentleman about the country,” said Jimmy, “that
I’d do it for only yourself; but seeing that the party is friends of
your own, I’ll let my mare go, and I’ll get Patsy Devlin’s grey pony
that was promised to Mr. Byrne for the day to be carting home the turf,
the same pony that the priest was thinking of buying. It’s little use
Patsy’s widow will have for a pony now her husband’s gone from her, the
creature. I don’t know another that you could put under a side car for
a gentleman to sit behind, and it’s badly able for the road the grey
pony will be this minute.”
“Give her a feed of oats between this and the time the train comes in,”
said Mr. Goddard.
“I will; and I’ll see if I can’t get the loan of the priest’s cushions
for the old car. The ones that are on it are terrible bad.”
Jimmy O’Loughlin was certainly not guilty of raising any false hopes
about the quality of his cattle or his vehicles; but Mr. Goddard had
a feeling of cold disgust when he saw the two cars standing together
outside the railway station. Jimmy O’Loughlin’s mare was the better of
the two animals, and she looked extraordinary feeble and depressed. The
grey pony, which should have been drawing home Mr. Byrne’s turf, was
clearly unfit for the journey before him. He may have been fretting
for the loss of Patsy Devlin. He may have been insufficiently fed by
Mrs. Devlin. He looked as if his spirit was completely broken either by
starvation or great grief. The cars were dilapidated, and the harness
evidently untrustworthy. On the other hand the drivers were full of
life and vigour. They looked forward to receiving handsome tips from
the strangers at the end of their day’s work, and were quite prepared
to earn them by saying all the things which tourists expect from Irish
car drivers. They were primed with stories of the most popular kind
about every point of interest along the road. They had a store of bulls
and humorous repartees ready to their lips. They touched their hats
jauntily to Mr. Goddard as he passed them. He was a benefactor, and
they owed him respect and thanks.
The train drew up at the platform. The door of a first-class
compartment was flung open, and a gentleman bounded from it. His face
expressed a feeling of irresponsible holiday happiness. His movements
and the pose of his body suggested abundant vitality and energy. He
turned and assisted three ladies to alight. One, the youngest of them,
he lifted out in his arms and deposited three or four paces from the
carriage door. He laughed merrily as he did so. She also laughed. The
other two ladies, who had not been embraced, laughed. The holiday
spirit was strong in all of them. Then, still laughing, he turned to
the carriage again, and received from some one inside a number of
bags, boxes, coats and parcels. He took them two by two and laid them
in a long row at the feet of the ladies. Then a second gentleman got
out of the train, a long, lean man, of sallow complexion and serious
expression.
Mr. Goddard felt that it was time to introduce himself. He approached
the party cautiously, skirting an outlying hold-all. The first
gentleman, who was also a good deal the younger of the two, spied him
coming and bounded forward to meet him.
“You are Mr. Goddard,” he said joyously. “I’m sure you must be. I’m
delighted to meet you. My name is Dick, surname, you know. Christian
name similar--Richard Dick, M.P., not yet in the Cabinet.”
He had to the highest possible degree that air of breezy joviality
assumed by many Englishmen when they cross St. George’s Channel. It
was as if, having at last reached the land of frolicsome recklessness,
he was determined to show himself capable of wild excess and a very
extremity of Celtic fervour.
Mr. Goddard bowed, and murmured that he felt it a pleasure and an
honour to make Mr. Dick’s acquaintance.
“This,” said Mr. Dick, “is Mr. Sanders. Sorrowful Sanders we call him,
on account of the expression of his face. He’s not in the Cabinet
either; but he soon will be.” He caught Mr. Goddard by the arm and
whispered a clearly audible aside. “He’s a Scot, and that’s nearly the
same thing, you know.”
“Shut up, Dick!” said Mr. Sanders.
“How can you talk such nonsense?” said the eldest of the three ladies,
whose appearance suggested some strength of character, and suddenly
brought back Miss Blow to Mr. Goddard’s mind.
“This,” said Mr. Dick, indicating the lady, “is Miss Farquharson,
Sanders’ aunt. This”--he pointed to another lady--“is Mrs. Sanders,
his wife. And this”--he drew forward by the hand the lady whom he had
lifted out of the carriage--“is Mrs. Dick, the ‘woman that owns me.’
Isn’t that the way you express it in this country?”
Mr. Goddard bowed three times, and then glanced doubtfully at the bags
which lay on the platform.
“I’ve only been able to get two cars for you,” he said. “Have you much
more luggage in the van?”
“Oh, but an Irish car can carry any quantity of luggage,” said Miss
Farquharson. “I’ve seen them absolutely packed, and still there was
room for more.”
Mr. Goddard admitted that this was true; but he thought of Patsy
Devlin’s grey pony and the long miles between Clonmore and
Pool-a-donagh.
“And if there isn’t room,” said Mrs. Dick, “I’d like to sit in the
middle--on the well--isn’t that what they call it?--with my back
against the driver. I saw a boy sitting like that the other day, and it
looked lovely.”
“It’s all right,” said Mr. Dick. “We have two bikes with us. Sanders
and I will ride. You shall have my machine, Sanders, and I’ll take my
wife’s. Come along. The spin will do you all the good in the world.
We’ll pedal along and let the ladies have the cars.”
Mr. Sanders protested strongly against this plan. He had, he said, a
weak heart, and cycling did not agree with him. He was overborne by a
command from his aunt, and towed down the platform towards the luggage
van by Mr. Dick. Miss Farquharson confided to Mr. Goddard that her
nephew’s heart was not nearly so bad as he thought it was, and that
the exercise would do him good. She was, unquestionably, a lady of
commanding character.
“He’s so full of energy,” said Mrs. Dick, watching her husband’s
progress admiringly. “I say the air of Ireland has got into his head.”
“Is he not so energetic at home?” asked Mr. Goddard.
“Indeed he isn’t. Just fancy if he was!”
She giggled convulsively at the thought. It was evident that Mr.
Dick, though not a Scot, belonged to some part of the country where
decorum of demeanour and a certain gravity are expected from Members of
Parliament.
“‘Fare thee well,’” shouted Mr. Dick from the end of the platform,
“‘and if for ever, still for ever fare thee well.’”
He was wheeling the two bicycles out of the station, and was followed
by the obviously reluctant Mr. Sanders.
“Richard, Richard!” said his wife.
Mr. Dick paused and looked round.
“Have you got your sandwiches? Don’t go without your sandwiches. I’m
sure they’re in my hold-all.”
But Mr. Dick patted his coat pocket triumphantly. He had the
sandwiches. He was not the kind of man, so his attitude suggested,
the feeble and inefficient kind of man, who goes off without his
sandwiches. A moment later, having compelled Mr. Sanders to mount, he
was cycling gaily down the road towards Clonmore.
“Richard, Richard!” shouted his wife again. But it was too late. Her
voice did not reach him.
“I’m sure,” she said, turning to Mr. Goddard, “that he doesn’t know the
way. He has never been here before. He’ll get lost. Whatever are we to
do?”
Mr. Goddard consoled her. He pointed out that Mr. Dick had started in
the right direction; that it was generally possible to make inquiries
when in doubt; that, as a matter of fact, once clear of Clonmore, there
was only one road on which anybody could ride a bicycle, and that it
led straight to Pool-a-donagh. Miss Farquharson helped to reassure her.
“Where there’s a will there’s a way,” she said sententiously.
“Do stop him,” said Mrs. Dick. “You must stop him. He’s got my
pocket-handkerchief in his pocket. I gave it to him to keep for me in
the train.”
“I can’t,” said Mr. Goddard. “He’s gone. He’s out of sight. Even if
he wasn’t, I don’t think that I could stop him. But I can lend you a
pocket-handkerchief. I have two. This one is quite clean.”
Then came the business of packing the ladies and their belongings on
the cars. Mr. Goddard, after consultation with the station master and a
porter, gave all the luggage to the driver of Patsy Devlin’s grey pony.
Jimmy O’Loughlin’s mare was the more likely of the two animals to reach
Pool-a-donagh, and the station master pointed out that if there were
to be a break down it would be better for the ladies to arrive without
their luggage than for the luggage to arrive while the ladies were left
on the side of the road. Mrs. Dick, recovering her spirits, insisted
on carrying out her plan of sitting on the well of the car. There was
a small crowd outside the railway station, which watched with reverent
wonder her climbing and wriggling. She waved both hands to Mr. Goddard
as soon as she had settled herself comfortably, and was very nearly
thrown off the car when the mare started with a jerk. Afterwards she
clung to Miss Farquharson and Mrs. Sanders, who sat one on each side of
her.
It was not until the two cars were well on their way down the road that
Mr. Goddard recollected the promise he had made to Miss Blow. He had
really intended to fulfil it. He had it in his mind to say something
of a light and jocular kind about the disappearance of the doctor,
something which would redeem the letter of his promise without exciting
the Members of Parliament. It was not, he reflected, in any way his
fault that he had failed. He had no opportunity of speaking. Mr. Dick’s
impetuous energy had made it quite impossible to approach the subject
of Dr. O’Grady. But, while his own conscience absolved him, he was
quite sure that he would not be able to explain himself satisfactorily
to Miss Blow. She would not believe that Members of Parliament could
possibly behave as Mr. Dick had behaved. She would not understand
the effect of the Irish air upon naturally staid men. There was some
comfort for him in the thought that the cars, with Mrs. Dick’s legs
swinging off the foremost one, must have passed the hotel, and that
Miss Blow might have seen for herself that the party was in no mood for
investigating murders. The bicyclists, unless they deliberately turned
aside before reaching the town, must also have passed the hotel. Mr.
Dick very probably sang some song of the open road as he sped through
Clonmore. Miss Blow might have heard it, might have seen for herself
the sort of people these tourists were. If she did, Mr. Goddard’s
reputation as a man of honour would be safe. She could not possibly
expect him to redeem his promise.
Then a fresh and most depressing thought attacked him. The Members of
Parliament had come and were gone; but there was another promise of
his unfulfilled. Miss Blow would certainly expect him to start at once
and search for Dr. O’Grady. He knew that he could not postpone the
matter any longer. She would pin him to his word, insist upon immediate
action, refuse to rest satisfied with excuses. He walked very slowly
down the hill from the station.
A cowardly way of escape presented itself to him at the last moment.
His horse and trap were in the hotel yard. If he could get them
without being seen by Miss Blow he might drive back to Ballymoy. Miss
Blow, since the Members of Parliament had got the only available
cars, could not follow him. Forgetful of honour and chivalry, of Miss
Blow’s tear-stained face, of the pressure of her hand, of the kiss
which he had nearly given to her glove, he made up his mind to fly. He
approached the hotel very cautiously.
Like a thirsty man on a Sunday who has not been able to travel the
number of miles which make drinking legal, he climbed over a back wall
into the yard. He glanced nervously at the windows, hoping that Miss
Blow’s room looked out on the front and that she would be expecting him
to reach the hotel along the road. He caught sight of Bridgy staring
out of the scullery window. She had watched him climb the wall and was
most anxious to discover what he intended to do next. It seemed to her
unnatural that an officer of police should enter an hotel in such a
way. Mr. Goddard, taking shelter in the stable, beckoned to her through
the door. Filled with curiosity, she crossed the yard and joined him in
the stable.
“Bridgy,” he said, “here’s a shilling for you. Is Mr. O’Loughlin
inside?”
“He is, sir,” said Bridgy.
“Then tell him to come out here. I want to speak to him.”
“Is it out to the stable?”
Mr. Goddard had sacrificed his own self-respect when he yielded to
temptation and made up his mind to escape. He now flung away all hope
of ever being respected by Bridgy.
“Yes; here in the stable. And if you meet Miss Blow, don’t tell her
where I am.”
“I will not. Why would I? But sure----”
“Go on now, like a good girl, and don’t waste your time talking to me.”
Jimmy O’Loughlin was a man of tact and good manners. He greeted Mr.
Goddard cheerfully as if then were nothing surprising in the choice of
a stable for the scene of an important interview. He had been warned
by Bridgy that Mr. Goddard, for some reason, stood in terror of Miss
Blow; but he made no allusion to her. He opened the conversation with a
remark on a safe, indifferent topic.
“Them was queer people,” he said, alluding to the Members of Parliament
and their party.
“I want my horse and trap,” said Mr. Goddard, “and I want to pay my
bill. I am going back to Ballymoy at once.”
“I wouldn’t say but you’re right,” said Jimmy, “if them ones is likely
to be back here in the course of the day.”
“It’s not that. I don’t mind about them. It’s business that’s taking me
home--important business.”
This was too much for Jimmy O’Loughlin. His tact and manners were good,
but he was not going to allow Mr. Goddard to escape without an allusion
to Miss Blow.
“The doctor’s young lady is within, waiting for you,” he said.
“I know that; but I haven’t time to talk to her now. In fact, it is
most important that I should get away without her seeing me--on account
of my business.”
“I wouldn’t say but you might be right there too,” said Jimmy.
They set to work together and harnessed Mr. Goddard’s horse. They
led him into the yard and put him between the shafts of the trap as
silently as possible.
“I’m thinking,” said Jimmy, “that maybe it would be better for you not
to be paying me the trifle that’s due for your bed and your dinner
until the next time you’re over.”
“Very well. Then I’ll be able to start at once.”
“You will. And, what’s more, when the young lady asks me what’s
happened to you, I’ll be able to say that I don’t know because you went
off without paying your bill.”
Jimmy O’Loughlin had a sensitive conscience. He could lie without
hesitation when circumstances required it of him, but he preferred,
where possible, to deceive without departing from the literal truth.